‘Drive off!’ I tell Rob, glancing across at him. ‘Quickly, before she sees us.’
‘No, I want to speak to her,’ Rob says, remaining inert. ‘She can explain herself to you.’
‘Rob, no! Not now.’
‘Why not?’ he asks, opening his window to wave the traffic past us.
‘Because I don’t want to humiliate her in front of her friends.’
‘I won’t,’ Rob says, pressing the button to lower my window. ‘I’ll just have a word.’
I lean back from the rain as it finds its way into the car and ask Rob again if we can please go home, but he shakes his head, tells me he won’t lose his temper, he just wants to have a quick chat with her. Sash is near enough now that I can see the smile on her face. She’ll notice us soon, recognise the car and be embarrassed we’ve stopped, caught out in a lie and shamed in front of her friends. We need to go, whilst we still can. I look across at Rob, who seems oblivious to my panic. He won’t care about the embarrassment of a confrontation; it’s of little consequence to him if he feels he’s in the right. I glance back to the mirror, Sash my focus again, praying she doesn’t notice us and relieved to see she’s still looking up at the tall man, his dark hair flopping down as he bends towards her in a kiss.
‘She lied to you,’ Rob says, looking at me now.
‘I’m well aware of that, but this isn’t the time or the place.’
‘It’s your bloody birthday. She should make more of an effort.’ He leans across me and calls out her name through the open window. ‘Sash! Sash! Over here!’
‘Oh god, Rob, please,’ I say, but it’s too late.
The man notices us first, then Sash too, her smile fading as the lights of the passing cars flash us interrupted images of her startled expression. She whispers something to her companion, and he hangs back from the rest of the group, who are pushing past our car now, peering in at me through the open window. The girl from the crossing laughs as she unsteadily negotiates the pavement beside us and mutters under her breath, ‘Hello Mrs Harding.’
I smile back, but my attention is immediately drawn again to Sash and the man, his face in shadow as he watches her approach our car.
‘I thought you were ill,’ Rob says, leaning across me so he can address our daughter.
‘I was,’ Sash says. ‘I had a headache.’
‘Are you okay now?’ I ask her.
‘Of course she is,’ Rob answers for her. ‘She always was.’
‘Mum, I’m sorry if—’
‘Pretty horrible thing to do, Sash,’ Rob replies on my behalf. ‘Lie to us so you can get out of seeing your mother on her birthday.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Sash tells him, glancing over her shoulder to the dark-haired man. ‘Can we please do this another time? You’re embarrassing me in front of my friends.’
‘Embarrassing you?’ Rob taunts. ‘Oh no, we can’t have that!’
‘Rob, let’s just go. We can talk to Sash tomorrow,’ I say, but my words are lost as Sash retaliates, telling him to be quiet for fuck’s sake.
‘Oh, nice language, Sasha Harding,’ Rob says as they continue to argue, but my focus switches to the dark-haired man, who is now lighting a cigarette. The flame skitters, extinguished by the heavy rain, then flares again to illuminate a wide mouth, traces of a smile, then dark eyes as he looks straight at me, the smile spreading wider. I look away, brought back to the escalating row being conducted across my lap.
‘Well if you don’t want to believe me—’ Sash is telling her father, her words cut off by the rising window, Rob’s thumb pressed hard to the button beside him.
‘That was rude of you,’ I say, thrown back in my seat as Rob pulls away at speed. ‘Sash was still speaking.’
‘I’m the one you’re blaming?’ Rob replies, his foot heavy on the pedal. ‘What about her? You should have told her it’s not on, she needs to bloody grow up.’ He slams the car into fifth gear as we exit the ring road. ‘You always let her get away with it.’
‘If she doesn’t want to be with me on my birthday, then—’ I turn away from him, a hard lump in my throat. ‘I don’t want her there just because she feels she has to be.’
‘Of course she bloody has to be,’ Rob replies. ‘That’s what kids do for their parents, whether they want to or not!’
We’re leaving town now, the roads wider and straighter, but darker too, the shadows concealing my anger as I stare at my monochrome reflection in the window beside me.
‘Come on, Jo. Don’t let this spoil your birthday,’ Rob says, glancing across at me.
‘Oh, I think that ship has truly sailed,’ I reply.
‘Thanks a lot,’ he says, swerving to avoid an unlit cyclist.
I tell him I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I know he went to a lot of trouble and I love the present he bought me – I smooth the soft leather of my new bag, the exact one I would have picked out for myself – but the scene with Sash was awful, and he shouldn’t have humiliated her in that way.
‘Someone has to tell her, Jo. If she wants to be a grown-up, then she needs to act like one.’
‘She’s not though, is she? She’s still a child in many ways.’
‘I know it’s hard for you to accept . . .’ Rob says. ‘But you knew this was going to happen; kids grow up.’
‘Like we all know we’re going to die?’ I reply, holding on to the side of my seat. ‘Quite soon if you don’t slow down a bit.’ Rob frowns and reduces his speed with a tap on the brake.
‘Just for once try and understand how hard this is for me,’ I continue. ‘It’s not about my birthday. Every day is hard for me, every day.’
Rob sighs audibly. ‘You need to find something else to fill the time; look on it as a positive thing.’
We continue our journey in silence, the traffic lights and partygoers of the town centre behind us. Past the new flats by the park, then the larger estates which have sprung up in recent years, filling the pockets of land which once edged the town, then the village which signals our journey is almost done; just the narrow climb up the hill to the barn.
‘Actually,’ I say, sitting up straight in my seat, ‘I have already.’
Rob glances across at me as we twist our way up the long narrow track, his expression obscured, only the reflected light from the car’s headlamps to illuminate our discussion. ‘Already what?’ he asks.
I’d wanted to tell Rob about my decision to volunteer straight away, but I’d decided to wait, in case it didn’t happen. It’s been a couple of weeks since I filled in the forms at the drop-in centre and in that time I’d set aside my expectations of the place, vacillating between relief at not hearing anything from Rose, then disappointment that I may not. But this morning she’d rung me to say my clearance had come through and to invite me in for ‘a cup of tea and a quick chat’.
Maybe I should have said something to Rob over our meal this evening, but the chance hadn’t really arisen. Although, if I’m honest, it was more the thought of his reaction which has held me back. I think of Rose, how she’d welcomed me with such enthusiasm when I’d called by this afternoon, and how her boss Nick had taken me aside, laid his hand on my arm and thanked me for giving up my time, ‘a rare thing these days’.
‘I’ve volunteered at a drop-in centre,’ I say, holding my breath.
Rob doesn’t reply, distracted perhaps by the demands of the country lane, the incline building, as is the force of the rain.
‘It’s in town, next door to Sash’s work,’ I continue, filling the silence, just the elements providing a soundtrack. ‘She’s helped out there herself, with her work colleagues.’
‘Sash did?’ Rob asks, the difficult driving conditions demanding his concentration, the road up to the barn temporarily obliterated by the heavy downpour.
‘A while ago. Just the once. That’s not the point. I’m trying to tell you I’ve volunteered.’
We’ve reached the obscured entrance to our drive, marked by a stone painted whi
te which is now lit up by the headlights. Rob locks the car as I run across the drive, the door key ready in my hand, although we’re both soaked through by the time we’re inside.
‘Good grief!’ I say, shaking out my jacket to place it on the back of a dining chair. ‘That rain is vile.’ I turn on the coffee machine and smooth down my hair. It had felt as though the wind might rip it from my scalp on my way from the car. ‘Coffee?’
Rob is drying his hair on the towel he’s taken from the downstairs cloakroom. ‘Yes, thanks. Then you can tell me what on earth you’ve been up to.’ He pulls the towel from his face to reveal a smile. ‘I’m teasing you! Come on, I’m interested.’
Twenty-three years of marriage creates patterns of behaviour, some helpful, some not. We’ve learnt how to placate one another, and how to deliberately antagonise. There’s also a level of candour which can be helpful or destructive; both of us able to speak with blistering honesty. In the fight-or-flight analogy, I am neither. I’m a hedgehog curled into a ball in the corner, Rob the determined predator poking at my spines until I respond. He sits with his feet stretched out under the dining table so they almost reach mine on the other side, both our coffees finished, the discussion far from over. I try to deal with Rob’s questions in a measured manner, but as I field each of his concerns I can feel the rage swelling inside me. His prejudices against the kind of people I want to help are uncensored. He warns me of the threats they present: I could be attacked, robbed, abused. And why do I want to give my time away to ‘dossers’ who don’t even try to get work, begging on the streets for drug money? I remain silent, hot anger boiling inside me; although I know he’s voicing some of the fears which were mine until recently. Then I met Rose and Nick; felt the warmth of their generous spirits, admired the aims of a place which offers hope to people who have been dealt a rough hand. It isn’t always their fault, Rose told me, and I agree.
‘We have so much,’ I tell Rob. ‘Shouldn’t we do more? These people shouldn’t be defined by their problems; it could just as easily be us, or the kids. No one is immune. They need to be listened to, supported.’ And I want to feel needed again, Rob. Although I don’t share this last thought with him, for I know he would tell me that he needs me and isn’t that enough?
‘You sound like—’ he says, stopping himself.
‘Like what?’ I ask, worn out by his narrow-mindedness.
‘A therapist,’ he replies.
Rob has no time for ‘talking therapies’, and he always provides air quotes to accompany his criticism. As a deeply logical and pragmatic man, he subscribes to the least-said-soonest-mended mantra, and it’s taken many years of persuasion and sometimes frank discussions for him to even partially accept that not every problem requires a solution; sometimes you just need to be heard and acknowledged.
‘Well clearly I’m not a therapist, Rob, but you don’t have to have any special skills to volunteer. You just have to be calm and friendly.’ The bottle of Prosecco we shared at dinner appears to have loosened my usual reserve. ‘Rose, she works there . . .’ I explain, for some reason choosing not to mention Nick. ‘Rose says the people who come in have a lot to say, but they’re rarely heard; just listening is often enough. I know this might seem sudden, but I’ve realised lately that I’ve become too self-involved, that I don’t always like the choices I’ve made, they’re selfish.’
‘Look, I get it,’ Rob says. ‘You’re trying to help. But not like this, Jo.’
‘Why not?’ I ask, pushing my chair back from the table. ‘You said yourself I need something else to focus on now the kids are gone.’
Rob is warming to his subject, telling me it’s not like we don’t give to charity, but this, putting myself on the front line; he just doesn’t think it’s safe. I explain, as evenly as I can, that I won’t be on my own, I’ll be part of a bank of volunteers. I can do as little or as much as suits. I’ve signed up for two hours a week, that’s all. If he’s worried his dinner won’t be on the table—
‘Don’t be ridiculous! That’s not what I’m saying at all.’ He clasps his hands together and breathes in through his nose, his eyes raised to stare at the kitchen ceiling. ‘Why do you always have to turn this into me being some kind of . . .’ He sighs, looks at me. ‘Tell me what you’ll be doing for your two hours? Please, I’m interested.’
‘Helping at the Job Search group,’ I tell him. ‘They come in for advice on their CVs, applying for jobs, to use the computers . . .’ I trail off, unsure how to continue. I’d felt secure when Rose had suggested it, convincing me I could easily cope with the duties.
Rob sits up and, to my surprise, his tired face relaxes, then breaks into a weary smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m not being fair to you.’ He stands up and walks around the table to kiss me on the top of my head. Then he gathers up our empty coffee cups and holds them in one hand. ‘It wouldn’t be my choice, but evidently you’re a much nicer person than I am.’
‘Really?’
‘You don’t need my permission, Jo.’ He reaches out to help me up from the chair, pulling me to him with his free hand and kissing me on the lips. ‘Come on, you!’ he says, putting the cups back down on the table and leading me out of the kitchen towards the stairs. ‘I’ve never had sex with a fifty-five-year-old.’
And although I’m yet to catch up with his sudden about-turn, I smile back at him, allowing us to slip back into the manufactured happiness of my birthday celebration, because Rob’s love and loyalty are two things I never have to worry about.
8
Four Days After The Fall
At first glance I assumed Rose’s message must have been sent to me by mistake. I finished my reply to Rob’s text, reassuring him I was fine, and re-read the email, the undercurrent of alarm, or was it excitement I felt, undiminished as I absorbed the words and their possible meaning for a second time.
Jo, Please, please, please reply to this! I wouldn’t normally email you, but I’m at my wits’ end. I must have called you a thousand times and sent you a dozen texts in the last week. What’s going on? Are you okay? Where are you, Jo? Please get in touch!!!! You know I’m here for you, whatever you need. No judgements, just help, okay? Rose xxx
Maybe we were newish friends, and Rose was someone prone to the dramatic who I was trying to shake off. I’d probably missed a lunch or coffee date with her; but deep down I knew there was more to it, and my attempts at calm analysis were little more than camouflage for my true response. There had been no previous emails from her – I double-checked – but maybe she could provide some clue to my state of mind before my fall. I’ve never been one to seek out a confidante, someone to share the intimate details of my marriage with over a cocktail or a coffee, but I might have inadvertently given something away. I considered the merits of responding and decided to reply; as I’d always known I would.
Rushing to get ready for our ‘catch-up’ had been exhausting; every ounce of regained strength wrung out of me. By the time I heard the taxi’s tyres skidding to a halt on the gravel I was already feeling overwhelmed. Halfway down the hill I’d shouted at the driver to stop, the motion of his fast decent and his unsavoury body odour causing me to lean out of the door, gasping for air. Fortunately, I’d rallied enough to assure him we should continue, accepting his warnings I’d have to pay for the clean if I, as he called it, ‘hurled my guts up’. I’d cracked the window and lifted my perfumed wrist to my nose, willing away the rest of the journey.
‘You sure you’re alright, love?’ the driver asks me again, watching me climb out on to the pavement. ‘You still look peaky.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I tell him, pressing a twenty into his hand. ‘Sorry about before.’
‘No need to apologise; I’ve had much worse.’
I move away before he can furnish me with the details of his much worse fares, glancing across at the office building where Sash works as I walk past. She must have been working there over a year, although it still feels relatively new to me. ‘Just
think of all the taxi fares you’ll save when I go out drinking,’ she’d said, knowing I’d have gladly paid them ten times over if it would have changed her mind about moving into that awful bedsit. She’d taken the first job she was offered, the independence it promised too alluring. The thought of my daughter holding down a full-time job, even one for which she clearly has no real commitment, is something I’m yet to fully assimilate. I watch the revolving door, but it remains still. It’s mid-morning. Everyone is inside, doing whatever it is they do in there.
Beyond Sash’s office block I notice a recessed door and a sign propped up beside it; ‘Drop-in Centre – Please Come In!’ I pause in my step, recalling something familiar about it and also that the bar where Thomas works and Sash briefly lived is quite near here. The Limes. An image drops into my mind’s eye. I was standing opposite the bar, looking up at the flat above. I hesitate, wondering why I feel unsettled by the return of that memory, forcing myself to focus on the reason I’m here: to meet Rose.
The coffee shop is just past the drop-in-centre sign, exactly as Rose had described it. She’d seemed confused when I’d told her I didn’t know where she meant, another quick exchange of emails establishing where and when we should meet, the directions eventually given although she’d clearly wondered why I needed them. ‘It’s literally next to the drop-in centre, Jo.’
I’d assumed Rose would be about my age, maybe older, but as I look around the half-dozen or so tables an unkempt woman in her mid-to late thirties looks over, her hand shooting in the air. She’s seated at the front of the café, next to the wide bay window.
‘Oh my god, Jo,’ she says, standing up to greet me and almost knocking over her coffee in the process. ‘I thought . . . when you didn’t reply . . . well let’s not go there. Thank god you’re alright.’ She looks me up and down, reaching out to lay a hand on my arm. ‘You are alright?’
The bruises on my face have faded, a touch of concealer taking care of the remnants of a black smudge under my right eye, and the bump to my head is covered by my hair. My wrist is also improved, no longer bandaged, the bruises hidden beneath my jacket, although it is still tender to the touch. There are no obvious signs of my injuries, but I know I must look pale, my movements laboured.
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